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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24721612">6:17</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terrantalen/pseuds/Terrantalen'>Terrantalen</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Passenger [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Blue Song - Mint Royale (Music Video)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, Mild Painplay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, Sex on a Car, exhibitionist kink</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 01:29:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,751</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24721612</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terrantalen/pseuds/Terrantalen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Shameless PwP that's basically an excuse to get characters who look like Noel Fielding and Julian Barratt to do sexy things on the bonnet of a Ford Granada while listening to Sympathy for the Devil.</p><p>You know how it is.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Julian Barratt/Noel Fielding, The Kid/The Stooge</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Passenger [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1823737</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>6:17</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The flat is too small after the third day.</p><p>It’s just a little efficiency, the sort with the toilet in what was once a broom cupboard, the shower little better than a glorified sink. The six inch telly is a fuzzy mess that Jules can’t watch shit on. He doesn’t want to watch anything anyway. He wants to fucking <i>do</i> something. </p><p>He’s so restless by the end of day four, that he paces and chain-smokes his way through the night instead of sleeping. He pushes the uncomfortable camp bed into the center of the room and walks around in in an endless loop. He’s gone off food by day five. Can’t force anything solid down his throat, even though he knows he’s hungry; his stomach just isn’t going to fucking have it so he doesn’t bother trying. Instead, he drinks cup after cup of the shit instant coffee that he finds during a search of the cabinets that hang above the stacked microwave and mini fridge, which only increases his jitters and makes him smoke more and want to eat less.</p><p>By day six, the efficiency is a mess of cigarette ash, of empty pouches of instant coffee, of torn up pages. Jules eyes the empty jacket of <i>The Stranger</i> where it sits at corner of the camp bed and wonders what the hell had come over him. One moment he’d been holding the book trying to flip to his page, the next his bookmark had slipped out and he’d flipped too far and then he’d lost his shit. He’d ripped the pages out of it and thrown them in the air to keep himself from screaming.</p><p>He’s not good at this. At not working. Give him something to plan, something to do, something to fucking take his mind off all the nothing that sits in front of him. </p><p>
  <i>It’s not enough to be smart. You gotta be patient. You got to know when to wait. You gotta know when to stop.</i>
</p><p>Jules fights the temptation to scream <i>fuck you</i> at a man who isn’t there. Fucking Marcus and his sanctimonious bullshit, like he’s some kind of larcenous prophet.</p><p>He doesn’t get it anyway. For Marcus, it’s about the money. It’s about the score. It’s about the after.</p><p>For Jules, it’s about something else. It’s about focus. A purpose. It’s about feeling so terrified that he can stop fucking thinking for a change and just be goddamn <i>doing</i>.</p><p>The only thing that stops him from knocking over a newsagent’s on day seven is knowing that, if he got caught, he’d probably not get shot. Dead would be preferable to this, but incarcerated is what he already is, and that’s hell.</p><p>He can’t, though, keep waiting for the all-clear. Knowing he’s being a stupid piece of shit, he leaves before he gets the call, long before the predetermined period they all agreed to wait to reenter society. </p><p>It feels good, doing what he’s not supposed to. </p><p>It always does.</p><p> </p><p>It’s enough, at first, to go home. It takes the edge off for a day, or maybe a couple of days; Jules isn’t entirely sure how long it’s been when he wakes up. He feels removed from reality, like a sunken ship pulled up off the ocean floor, like he’s not really going to be able to get back into the flow of time, possibly ever. He’s either slept too much or not enough and can’t tell which.</p><p>His flat smells musty. He, himself, smells like stale sweat.</p><p>He opens the window in the kitchen and then takes a shower. He eats a bit of toast, and once he gets that down, he’s hungry enough to run out to the corner shop and pick himself up actual groceries. He spends the rest of the day eating and watching telly, feeling like he’s defying Marcus by doing so.</p><p>He wants to ring someone, but he hasn’t got anyone to call. His mum died two years ago, his dad fucked off before he was even born. He hasn’t got any mates.</p><p>It’s one of the things that makes him good at this work. He’s a fucking island. His personal life is so uncomplicated, it’s essentially a single line that connects him to one person. Marcus.</p><p>Jules can’t eat the spaghetti he makes for dinner.</p><p> </p><p>The record shop is a ten-minute walk from Jules’ flat. It’s a regular enough haunt of his that the bloke behind the counter recognizes him on sight and gives him a nod before he goes back to paging through his NME.</p><p>It’s a relic of a shop. Records line the side walls and fill the center. There’s a nod to the present along the back wall in the form of a rack of CD’s. There are tapes back there too, but the shop is mostly second-hand vinyl, alphabetized, but not separated by genre, so that The Beatles are two artists away from Beethoven and Motörhead is snuggled against Mozart.</p><p>The messy amalgam of all music makes it the sort of place that can take up an entire afternoon of Jules’ time. He plans to let it.</p><p>People filter in and out. He hears the bell above the door ring some two dozen times. </p><p>He flips his way through the whole alphabet. It’s when he’s flipping from Y to Z, that he pulls out <i>Hot Rats</i>. He gets a little lost in the eyes staring out at him from the cover. Distantly, he hears the bell ping again. He hears hard heels tapping on the lino coming in his direction.</p><p>He hears the approach, but it doesn’t occur to him that he’s the one being approached until a hand reaches for the other side of the record and tilts it away from him.</p><p>Jules feels a whiplash of nerves; he’s ready to throw a punch, to run. He’s got half a second to think about what a fucking moron he is, to envision himself getting collared and thrown in jail, to feel fucking <i>alive</i>, before he looks up and sees a shock of newly purple hair and a face that it takes no time at all to place.</p><p>Jules’ alarm is overwhelmed by confusion. It seems impossible to be mere coincidence, the kid finding him here entirely by chance. He has a thought that maybe Marcus sent him, maybe Marcus knows what Jules has been doing, but the kid is just holding onto the edge of the record and looking at it with undisguised interest.</p><p>“What the fuck?” Jules says, tugging the record toward himself. </p><p>The kid looks up at him, “Just wanted to see what you were looking at,” he says. He lets go of the record. “Zappa, huh? I’d have thought you’d be a classical man.”</p><p>He wants to tell the kid to fuck off. They’re not supposed to talk, they’re not supposed to know each other. They don’t know each other. But Jules doesn’t say anything. He just stares blankly at the boy in front of him.</p><p>They’re less than a record length apart, the kid’s body angled so that he could lean forward and be flat against Jules. His face is tilted slightly to the side, and Jules can’t figure out what’s happening until he suddenly sorts all the signals and he realizes that he’s being <i>cruised</i>.</p><p>By the fucking kid.</p><p>The kid’s eyes dip down and comb up Jules’ body, just a quick look, and it brings to mind another quick look that had passed between them just after the job. That, Jules had put down to adrenaline and wishful thinking.  This, though…</p><p>Fuck, it’s a bad fucking idea.</p><p>First, you don’t get involved with people who drive get away cars. You definitely don’t get involved with them when they’ve driven a get away car for you. You extra-don’t get involved when they find you at a record store that’s steps away from the flat you aren’t even supposed to be back at for another three weeks, and you really, really don’t get involved with them when they look like <i>that</i> and you look like a scarecrow without enough stuffing put in.</p><p>The kid’s tongue rolls over his bottom lip before he sucks it into his mouth and Jules remembers that he more or less lives for bad ideas.</p><p>“Is it the glasses?” he asks, gently touching the frames.</p><p>The kid grins, he rocks back and forth a little as he says, “You do look well-intellectual.”</p><p>“Well, I’m an idiot,” Jules says, truthfully. He’s going to let this happen, after all.</p><p>“Can’t be that stupid, if you like Zappa.”</p><p>Jules sniffs a laugh, “I don’t know if I like him yet. I was just browsing.”</p><p>The kid nods. “What d’you normally like?”</p><p>“Jazz,” Jules says. He’s not got it in him to make something up, and it’s the first true thing that springs to mind.</p><p>The kid smiles wider, like they’re sharing a joke. “And you ain’t never heard Zappa?”</p><p>Jules confirms that he hasn’t.</p><p>The kid shakes his head a bit, like he can’t believe it. Then, he looks up at Jules through his lashes and says, “You need a ride?”</p><p>Jules is surprised enough by the sudden, unashamed offer that he laughs. “What, now?”</p><p>“Nah, maybe Thursday?”</p><p>The kid’s voice has just enough of a smile in it that Jules knows absolutely what sort of ride it is that he’s being offered. He swallows and traces the edge of the album with his thumb. The kid watches. “Yeah, I could use a ride then.”</p><p>After that, it’s just details. A time, a place to meet, and then the kid pulls the Zappa record out of Jules’ hand. He saunters up to the counter and pays for it.</p><p>“It’s a good record,” he says, handing it back to Jules. “If you like jazz, you’ll like this.” </p><p>Again, Jules is tempted to tell him to fuck off; buying him a record, telling Jules that he’ll like it, like he’s not allowing Jules the opportunity to <i>not</i>.</p><p>He’s ready to do it, the words on the tip of his tongue, but then the little titbox shoots him a shit-eating grin, like he knows exactly what’s going on in Jules’ head, like he knows that the punchy kick of doing something stupid combined with being told what to do is waking Jules’ cock right the fuck up.</p><p>“Thursday,” the kid repeats one final time. “See you then.” He walks down the narrow alley between the records and then pushes open the door. The bell on it pings and it swings shut behind him. He turns one way, then the other before he dashes across the road and out of Jules’ sight.</p><p>Jules is a little dumbstruck. “A fucking moron,” he says of himself, to himself.</p><p>He tucks the record under his arm and leaves the shop.</p><p> </p><p>It’s not a bad night. The air is a little sticky, but now that the sun’s going down the heat has turned from oppressive to tolerable. Jules stands on the appointed street corner and feels a little more like a prozzie every second. He’s stood under a streetlamp, and once the amber light ticks on, he’s lit up like he’s in a display case. Self-consciously, he moves out of it and leans up against a brick wall a bit further from the curb.</p><p>He watches some kids mucking about on the common across from him and fiddles with the pack of cigarettes in his pocket. He wants one, but he’s resisting the urge. The kid hadn’t said much when he pulled up in his junky, green Ford before the job, but he’d seen the lit cigarette in Jules’ fingers and said, “No fucking smoking in the car, yeah?”</p><p>Marcus had turned to Jules and said, “Put that shit out,” and Jules had done it. He’d dropped it and stomped it under his shoe, the thrum of adrenaline already getting him higher than the nicotine ever could anyway.</p><p>As much as Jules wants the cigarette, he also wants to be able to get into the car when it arrives and just go. He wants to get started as soon as possible. He’s replayed the kid’s approach at the record store so many times that it almost feels like a dream.</p><p>He’s listened to <i>Hot Rats</i> so many times, he hears the tracks layering over the sounds of the traffic. The spiraling horn section, the erratic drums, the jumpy guitar; they’re all drilled into his brain. The line <i>meet me on the corner boy and don’t be late</i> from <i>Willie the Pimp</i> has been whispered and sung by him enough that it’s become a mantra.</p><p>Jules isn’t late. Couldn’t be late. </p><p>He recognizes the pattern of behavior well enough. It’s gone on for years. Long nights in the same small rooms with Marcus, so many nights putting things together, arranging hows, wheres, whens, and hearing it in Marcus’ voice, the sly pleasure when Jules says something insightful, or comes up with a good idea; and then getting dropped once it’s done. </p><p>Has to be that way, that’s what Marcus always says. Best to go their separate ways until the <i>next time</i>, except Marcus lives for the day when there won’t be a next time, and Jules—</p><p>Jules needs complication. Things that keep him if not <i>entertained</i> then at least on-edge enough that it feels almost like the same thing.</p><p>That's the reason for this, really. The need for something to tangle him up.</p><p>He also just fancies a fuck. It’s been long enough that Jules has lost track of when the last time was. Marcus, obviously, has never touched him. When Jules is feeling generous, he allows that it’s possible that Marcus doesn’t know he wants him to. When he’s not, he thinks Marcus knows exactly what Jules wants and uses it to his own advantage.</p><p>Jules closes his eyes and thinks about the kid’s arse jammed into those tight blue trousers he was wearing the day of the job. He’s nothing like him. The unspecified <i>him</i> needs no clarification. For Jules, there’s only been one <i>him</i> since they met. </p><p>He can’t stand it anymore. He takes the cigarettes out of his pocket and starts fishing for his lighter.</p><p>As soon as he touches the plastic, he sees the minty green Ford rolling up the street. Jules hastily puts everything away.</p><p>The kid stops the car and leans across the center to push open the passenger door.</p><p>The car looks a little shit, but it’s obvious that the kid doesn’t see it that way. The way he touches the wheel, the dash, the door— there’s a reverence to it. He’s probably out in his garage changing the oil in the night and polishing the wheels. </p><p>Jules doesn’t even know what the fuck kind of car it is, beyond that it’s a Ford.</p><p>Cars aren’t his thing, really. Couldn’t give a fuck less about them, but he’s not about to say that. He’s reluctant to say anything at all, he realizes, as he slides down in the passenger seat and pulls the door closed.</p><p>The kid looks over at him, “All right?”</p><p>Jules gives him a nod.</p><p>The kid puts the car into gear and that’s it for the chat.</p><p>That’s good. They’re already beyond the point where they need words. What good would they be anyway?</p><p>It’s a mental disorder, this. Whatever it is that has him doing things like this. Robbing banks, getting into cars with strange men he knows nothing about.</p><p>They leave Well Street Common behind them. They go past Hackney Marshes in a vaguely northerly direction. Jules stops trying to guess where they’re going once it becomes apparent that the kid is avoiding the motorways. All he knows is that they’re driving out of the city. </p><p>They end up somewhere no longer urban after a long stretch of silent driving. They go down a high street, past grotty looking shops and restaurants, then go through a rounabout and end up in a neighborhood of half-empty carparks and industrial buildings.</p><p>It’s not nice by any stretch. Jules had been hoping for the romance of, maybe, a shitty hotel, but seems like what he’s going to get it something worse.</p><p>It’s not until the headlights roll over a patch of unmown, yellow grass in front of a blighted carpark that would, honestly, be pretty perfect to shoot someone in that Jules starts feeling concerned again. Could be that he was wrong about all of this and what it really is, is that Marcus wants him out of the way. Could be. But then Jules’ eyes slide toward the kid and the kid catches him at it.</p><p>The smile on his face is too artless to be the smile of a hitman. </p><p>Jules hopes anyway.</p><p>The kid reverse parks the car against the deserted brick building so that the bonnet is pointed toward the quiet street. A skip looms to their left, in front of the door, like the building is being gutted, perhaps. They are clearly alone but the carpark isn’t that dark. There’s a streetlamp in front of them across the road and floodlights that hang off the building behind them. The bonnet’s patchy paintwork is more obvious in this lighting, the dull bits particularly dull next to the bits that reflect the multiple sources of false light. </p><p>The kid rolls down the windows and turns the car off. Crickets chirp out in the dark. </p><p>“Did you like your album?” he asks, breaking the silence.</p><p>“I did,” Jules says.</p><p>“Zappa’s good, isn’t he?”</p><p>Jules nods.</p><p>“Thought you’d like him.”</p><p>“I did,” Jules says again.</p><p>The kid hums. He looks over Jules and Jules takes it as an invitation to look him over in return. He’s got on tight trousers again, another belt that seems like it’s not so much holding them up as acting as an advert for his narrow hips, a t-shirt under a jacket, his hair teased up so that it frames his strong features.</p><p>The half-light makes strange shadows on his face. Jules wants it to make him less appealing. It doesn’t.</p><p>The kid unbuckles his seatbelt. The beads he’s sitting on clack as he turns toward Jules. “Don’t say much, do you?”</p><p>Jules shrugs.</p><p>The kid grins wide, like Jules has made a brilliant joke. He reaches down in front of him and pulls out his book of CD’s.  “How long d’you reckon?” he asks.</p><p>The way he fucking asks, all slurred South London, all cocksure certainty. <i>However long you think, cut it in half. You ain’t going to last.</i></p><p>Jules takes off his glasses and puts them on the dash. The kid stares at them like Jules has just taken his eyes out of his head then his gaze flips back to his face, “Well?”</p><p>“Can’t you just play something atmospheric?”</p><p>The kid laughs, “I don’t know what that means.”</p><p>“Just for the mood, you know?”</p><p>The kid’s grin goes utterly filthy and Jules feels it in his balls. He flips to the back of his book, pulls a CD out and pops it into the CD player. Pattering drums start. The kid turns the volume up. “C’mon,” he says. He opens his door and gets out of the car.</p><p>Jules is a little confused, but he follows suit.</p><p>
  <i>Please allow me to introduce myself, I’m a man of wealth and taste</i>
</p><p>The kid walks around to the front of the car. Jules stands facing him. </p><p>The kid puts a hand on Jules’ chest. He uses that touch to guide him where he wants him, pushes him until the backs of Jules’ knees meet the bonnet of the car. The kid keeps pushing and Jules sits down with a metallic thump.</p><p>The kid holds him there but doesn’t do anything. He looks into Jules’s eyes and waits.</p><p>Jules isn’t sure what for. It goes on for long enough that he can’t maintain the eye contact. He looks around them, at the empty car park, yes, but also at the street that’s no more than twenty feet in front of them, at the buildings surrounding them whose windows are still lit in uneven clusters. </p><p>There’s an entire fucking fleet of lorries across the street. Any of them could have someone inside and they’d never know. The patchwork night is full of places for people to hide, places people could be watching them from.</p><p>The privacy of darkness is all around them, yet he and the kid are very much lit up.</p><p>Anyone who drives by, or walks by, or just happens to be in the right place at the right time will see exactly what they’re doing. </p><p>
  <i>Made damn sure that Pilot washed his hands and sealed his fate</i>
</p><p>Jules inhales the humid air, feels the heat of the kid’s palm pressed against his sternum. He looks back into the kid’s massive blue eyes and sees it, understands what he’s saying.</p><p>It’s beyond stupid this. If they get caught, they’ll be in for public indecency, if they get caught, they’ll be in a getaway car that only recently sped away from one of the biggest bank robberies in recent memory. If they get caught, they’ll be in the shit for sure.</p><p><i>If</i> they get caught.</p><p>And it’s Jules who gets to decide if it’s happening or not, if it’s worth the risk.</p><p>The understanding triggers him like a starting pistol. Jules reaches out for the kid’s belt, uses it to pull him between his thighs. The kid surges forward, his hands clasp Jules’ hips and he crushes his mouth against Jules’. The bonnet pops as the kid presses him back, as his tongue slides between Jules’ lips. It pops again as he opens his mouth and invites Jules inside, the kiss hot, and instantly, exactly right.</p><p>Jules groans into the wet heat of the kid’s mouth and the kid mewls back at him. Jules slips backward on the slick bonnet, the heat of the engine is against his lower back and he feels himself beginning to sweat. The kid grips the fabric of Jules’ shirt, fists it in his hands and pulls Jules so that he’s sitting up. He grabs Jules around his back and yanks him against him so that Jules can feel the hard line of his erection.</p><p>He, himself, is incredibly hard. He has never felt this desperate for it before in his life. Part of it is an unspoken directive that they <i>will</i> be finished before the song is (the song which announces their presence like strung-out fanfare) but most of it is just how dumb and dangerous it is, what they're doing.</p><p>Fuck, Marcus would never—</p><p>And that thought gets knocked right out of his head because the kid chooses that moment to drive his hips down into him and the friction has a way of destroying thought of any kind. The air around them is humid, sticky, but it feels cool as the kid breaks their kiss so that he can bite and lick a trail around Jules’ throat. </p><p>He hikes up Jules’ shirt and palms Jules through his trousers. He slides his hand up his ribs, then fingers Jules’ nipple. Jules goes desperate at the contact. He can't stop himself from grinding against the kid’s crotch. The kid dips his head down and sucks Jules' nipple into his mouth. His tongue draws slow spirals as he licks and pulls at it.</p><p>Jules scrabbles for something to hold onto. His fingers dance over the smooth bonnet, get caught up on the rough edge where the paint goes from dull to shimmering but find no purchase there. At last his hands clasp onto the kid’s firm thighs. The kid pulls him closer, keeps him from slipping away as they rock against one another, each bump of pleasure begging for the next one to follow. Jules throws his head back, the sensation that travels across his skin shudders from his chest to his cock and back up. “Yes,” he gasps, just generally agreeing with everything that's happening.</p><p>The music is fucking <i>loud</i>. It’s like the whoop of a siren, the background vocals that pulse under Jagger’s slurred delivery, but Jules hardly hears it.</p><p>The kid suddenly pulls off him, “Get your trousers,” he says and Jules doesn’t need to be told twice. He toes off one trainer in anticipation of getting his trousers off, but his fingers get tangled up at his fly. His cock is too eager, his body too distracted by the sight in front of him.</p><p>The kid pulls the strap on his belt with one hand, gets it undone and flings it to the ground. His prick is outlined against the front of his trousers clear enough for Jules to be able to tell how big he is before they come off. The kid pinches the button into the fabric, pulls down his zip and pushes his trousers off his hips. He’s got his neon purple pants down in the same amount of time it takes for Jules to note their color, and then his cock, his pretty, erect prick, is out.</p><p>“Oh, fuck,” Jules moans.</p><p>The kid’s eyes are dark, predatory, as they glare down at Jules’ inept hands that still haven’t managed to unbutton his trousers.</p><p>
  <i>Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name</i>
</p><p>Jules fumbles with the button, electric want making it nearly impossible, but he finally gets it undone. The kid is too impatient to wait for Jules anymore. He bats Jules’ hands out of the way and pulls his zip down, then grips the waistband of Jules’ pants and Jules lifts his hips so that the kid can pull everything off him. He lowers himself back down and his arse sticks to the warm metal beneath him as the kid yanks his trousers down to his ankles. </p><p>The kid eyes him up. Jules is half undressed and has one trouser leg stuck on the trainer he didn't kick off. He feels exposed, vulnerable, a bit foolish, as the kid combs over him, but then the kid's gaze snags on Jules' cock, and Jules feels everything in him reverse. His cock pulses under the kid's frank stare. The kid's eyes slide up to Jules' face. He bites his lip and then he crawls up onto the bonnet. He holds himself over Jules, his hands on either side of Jules' rib cage, then he reaches for Jules’ wrist and spits into his palm. “Wank us,” he says, lowering his hips down so that their pricks meet.</p><p>Jules snakes his hand between them and grips them both in his fist. The kid starts pumping his hips, the feel of his hot prick sliding against Jules in the fistful of spit that soon becomes a fistful of spit and precum, the sight of his flushed and slightly sweat-damp face turning anxious with want, the bonnet popping underneath them as the kid thrusts faster; it’s all building up inside him, coiling around his cock and drawing his body up tight.</p><p>The guitar starts whining. Jules spreads his thighs wider, his long legs wrap around the kid’s hips, and he wishes the kid were actually fucking him, out in the open, out here, just like this. </p><p>“Oh,” Jules says, and repeats, insensibly, like he’s being illuminated again and again, discovering new, surprising information about himself at every turn, when really, he’s discovering is the same thing he discovers every time he starts paying attention to himself.</p><p>He’s deeply fucked up.</p><p>The kid, though, doesn’t seem to mind. He sucks at Jules’ throat, bites into him as Jules gets louder. It hurts, the way the kid is raking him with his teeth, but it’s so goddamned good, too. The edge of pain sharpens his pleasure, takes it higher and higher. Jules is whining with want, with need.</p><p>The kid growls. He shoves Jules’ shirt up again and presses his tongue flat against Jules’ nipple and then sucks it into his mouth ungently. Jules clutches the kid’s jacket, bucks his hips up, his grip on their joined pricks falters and the kid pulls away from Jules’ nipple.</p><p>“Don’t stop,” the kid says. “Come on, keep going.”</p><p>Jules gathers their pricks together again. The kid pins him down so that all Jules can do is hold on, his hand trapped between their bodies as the kid pumps his hips faster and faster.</p><p>Jules tosses his head from side to side, against the sensations that threaten to overwhelm him. He looks out into the empty space around them. It’s so expansive, the reflective dark, that he feels like he’s falling into it for a terrifying second, then he looks up.</p><p>The kid’s face is pointed down toward him, but his eyes are shut. He looks angelic, trapped in prayer. His lips mumble silent words that Jules wishes he could hear until he realizes that they’re the words to the fucking song. <i>Have some courtesy, some sympathy and some taste</i>. Jules wants to laugh, and it’s that, the unexpected spark of joy that does it as much as anything.</p><p>Heat travels from his belly to the back of his neck, fans out across his spine and down to the soles of his feet; it’s coming, it’s nearly there, and then it’s arrived. He swears again and again, the pleasure pulled out of him so intense that it feels like he’s been blown apart.</p><p>Jules barely has the wherewithal to keep hold of the kid’s prick in his hand, but he does. Jules’ own spent cock shouts about the oversensitivity, but he does not let go as the kid continues to fuck his fist, fast and wild, sloppy with Jules’ come sliding around them both.</p><p>“Please,” Jules breathes, asking for something that he's unsure the kid can give him, not even really knowing, himself, what it is he wants.</p><p>The kid hears him, his hips hitch, his stroke falters.</p><p><i>Tell me baby, what’s my name?</i> Mick squeals and the kid comes at last.</p><p>The sound he makes is a truncated shout; truncated because as soon as Jules feels his release shooting against his fingers, Jules forces his hand into the kid's hair and pulls his head down so he can kiss him. The kid kisses him back. He doesn’t roll off him or shove him away. He kisses back like he’s grateful for what Jules has done for him, even though Jules hasn’t done much at all.</p><p>The next track starts and the kid slowly pushes himself up and slides off the bonnet of the car.</p><p>Jules sits up and watches the kid wiping himself with some napkins. </p><p>The kid pulls up his pants and tucks himself away. He sees Jules looking at him and he reaches into his jacket pocket and then hands Jules a wad of napkins for himself. “Here,” he says.</p><p>“Thanks,” Jules replies shakily.</p><p> </p><p>The kid drives them back to London. The drive back is just as quiet as the drive out. Jules is too tired for conversation anyway, and he doesn’t want to ruin the night by saying something stupid. He just leans his head against the door and feels the cool whistle of humid air on his face, listens to the whisper of the cars they pass, sees the streetlights pink up the backs of his eyelids.</p><p>“Where do you want me to drop you?” the kid asks, shaking Jules out of sleep.</p><p>He’s giving Jules the opportunity to say the common, which is nowhere near where Jules actually lives, or maybe somewhere else that would further muddy the waters between them and make the record store seem like a fluke rather than a clue.</p><p>Jules wants to be smart and protect himself. He wants to say, <i>at the corner,</i> or <i>anywhere here</i>, but he can’t. He’s tired, completely relaxed for the first time in weeks, and there’s something else, too. He wants this to happen again, wants it, maybe, to keep happening after that because ever since that moment the kid shoved him onto the bonnet, Jules' thoughts have been blissfully silent.</p><p>“The record store,” he says, “could you drop me there?”</p><p>“Sure,” the kid says.</p><p>He doesn’t ask if Jules lives around there. He hasn’t even asked Jules what his name is.</p><p>Jules, for that matter, hasn’t asked the kid what his name is either.</p><p>It feels safer not to know. That’s another one of Marcus’ rules. Ignorance is protection. Can’t rat out people you know nothing about; but, then again, Marcus makes it a point to know everyone he works with. Ignorance might be protection, but knowledge is power. </p><p>The kid stops in front of the record store. “Here you go,” he says quietly.</p><p>Jules fiddles with the handle on the door. “Look,” he says, “I—it was fun. Tonight.”</p><p>The kid smirks, “Yeah?”</p><p>Jules nods, feeling stupid. He pulls the door handle.</p><p>“Hey.” The kid puts his hand on Jules’ arm and Jules freezes in place. “I had fun too.” His eyes dip toward the pedals as he says, “Maybe you need another ride sometime?”</p><p>Jules blinks. “Sure,” he says.</p><p>“Tuesday, maybe? Nine?”</p><p>“Sure,” Jules repeats.</p><p>The kid’s smile is warmer this time. “Should I… swing round here?”</p><p><i>Don’t be an imbecile,</i> part of him insists, but then, Jules thinks, it’s a bit late for that.</p><p>“Yeah. The record store is good. I’ll wait out front.”</p><p>“Cool,” the kid says. He still has his hand on Jules’ arm. He tilts his head, suddenly goes shy as he says, “Ain’t I going to get a kiss goodnight, then?”</p><p>Jules huffs a laugh, “We going steady?”</p><p>Now the kid laughs. “No,” he says, “reckon I’d have to buy you dinner or something before we could be doing that. I just want something to tide me over. ‘Til next time.”</p><p>The words <i>next time</i> coil in Jules’ belly. What, he wonders, will the kid do to him <i>next time</i>. The kid’s face slides from unsure into cocksure. Jules leans across the center console. The kid meets him halfway and what starts out tentative turns on a dime and is desperate a second later.</p><p>They snog with the car idling until Jules starts feeling himself getting hard again. He pulls away. “Tuesday,” he manages to say.</p><p>“Tuesday,” the kid repeats, his voice rough.</p><p>“See you then.”</p><p>Jules steps out and shuts the car door. The kid doesn’t drive away until Jules has crossed the street and started walking for home.</p>
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